


Dawn

by angryjester



Category: Original Work
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Early Mornings, Random & Short, Spies & Secret Agents, the work is very briefly hinted at tbh, there's also a cat but i didn't tag him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-28 00:48:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15696756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angryjester/pseuds/angryjester
Summary: The clock read 5:36 AM.That was the harshest thing, in her opinion.





	Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> yoyoyo
> 
> so this isn't another fanfiction, surprise surprise. i decided to post this because i really liked it, even if it was short. who knows, maybe this'll be taken someplace in the future!  
> -a.

    The only thing harsher than the cold space in her bed was the neon flash of the bedside alarm clock. When the harsh light probed her eyelids, she lifted a lid groggily. The blinking number was unrelenting. 

_ 5:36 am. _

__ With a frustrated sigh, the faux-blonde sat up in her bed and let the sheets fall and pool at her hips. The sheets dwarfed her tiny, malnourished frame like the crown the future king wears when he is a mere prince, a sick mocking for the child of the future that is to come. 

    It’s oddly fitting, she supposes. 

    With hesitance, she drags her weak, dying frame up and to her meager kitchen, fishing out what she hoped isn’t expired milk and too much coffee for one person to drink and still be considered healthy. But again, she remembers, nothing can beat the profession she had found herself in when “danger” comes into the equation. As her dangerously strong pot of coffee brews, she leans against the disintegrating counter and cabinet with a long inhale. Was she still in the middle of the mission with the killer in Moscow? Running a hand down her face, she genuinely can’t remember. She also doesn’t  _ care _ particularly in her state of half-consciousness, but that was neither here nor there to her. 

    Cup of coffee in one hand and phone equipped with earbuds in the other, the woman with bleached hair growing out past the point of socially acceptable retires to the patio that branches off from the living room. A cup of coffee on the patio wouldn’t be terrible for her mental state, would it?

    Saying “fuck it” either way, the woman weakly pushes the door open, her cat slithering past her ankles and onto the stool adjacent to what she calls her “thinking chair” (which is really just a cheap, collapsible beach chair that’s supposedly weather resistant, because she just couldn’t forgive herself if she splurged on a  _ nice  _ chair only for it to be destroyed by weather damage), she crosses what can barely be considered a terrace thanks to the dingy apartment building she lived in. Like most things in her life, it works because she doesn’t have a choice but to not care. 

    The coffee’s almost startlingly bitter, she realizes with a wince. Not that it bothers her conscience, as she knows that without it she would essentially be a zombie. Perhaps that’s why she drinks the coffee anyways, regardless of the assault on her taste buds from the foul liquid. The voice in her head reminds her that it’s the self-loathing that keeps her drinking, not her state of tiredness or limp frame. Whichever it be, she drinks the coffee regardless, wincing all the while. 

    Watching the barely-there sun illuminate the streets below, the blonde reaches for her earbuds to block out her own self-deprecating voice in her head, she turns the quiet rock of some forty years before in with a hum of appreciation. Stroking the cat lying nearing near her feet, the woman -  _ Dawn,  _ she blearily reminds herself - figures she could get used to watching the sun rise over the withered ghetto streets she reluctantly called her home.


End file.
